


Splish-Splash

by Seascribe



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Happy Gay Farmers, M/M, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/pseuds/Seascribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus and Esca go skinny dipping (and trout tickling).  Porn ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splish-Splash

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lallyloo's prompt on the Happy Gay Farmers comment fest.

The spring planting is done, and summer comes in a honey golden stretch, the long hot days heavy and slow, under a sky so bright and blue it almost hurts to look at. The work is still hard, but there is a little time now to breathe, time enough for Esca and Marcus to leave the farm for a while to go fishing, stripped to their skin in the cool stream as Esca tries to teach Marcus the trick of tickling trout.

“Your Roman hands are not clever enough,” he teases, and Marcus chases him upstream, comically slow in the thigh deep water. A submerged branch catches Esca’s foot, and he goes down, spluttering.

“Got you!” Marcus crows triumphantly, and hauls him out onto the bank, pinning him down in the prickling grass. “Say again how my Roman hands aren’t clever enough,” he says, tickling Esca’s sides and belly mercilessly til he hiccups with laughter. “You‘re certainly flopping like a trout!” Marcus laughs, his grin flashing white in his olive face.

“That’s the closest to a fish you’ll see today, for your splashing has surely scared them all off,” Esca gasps, getting a leg free at last and flipping them over.

He grins down at Marcus, who makes no effort to free himself but reaches up to brush Esca’s wet hair out of his eyes. It is getting long now, in the manner of his people. Marcus’ hand drifts absently to trace the blue lines of Esca’s tattoos, over his shoulders and down his chest, and Esca shivers, his wet skin prickling in goosebumps where Marcus’ fingers have been.

It feels strange to Marcus to be so close, like this, out under the open sky for anyone who walks by to see. No one will, for this is their place, but the thought sends an anxious, excited shiver down his spine when Esca leans down to kiss him and pins his arms above his head. Esca takes his time, teasing Marcus’ lower lip with his teeth and kissing along his cheekbones and jaw, until Marcus is making little needy noises in his throat and hitching his hips against Esca’s weight.

Esca smirks at him, nosing into the space against Marcus’ neck to tease at the sensitive spot beneath his ear, and working his way down to the thin skin just above his collarbones, sucking just enough to make Marcus squirm again, but not enough to leave a mark.

“Can I--?”

“Hngh,” Marcus says, and Esca laughs at him before sucking a dark bruise just low enough that it will be hidden by Marcus’ tunic later. Esca always asks, mindful of the first time when Marcus had been upset at such an obvious symbol of what they did together, when he was still uncomfortable with many of the things Esca was willing to give--and take--from him. But Esca has been careful and extremely persuasive, and there are very few things now that Marcus is unwilling to do, although there are plenty that still make him blush.

Esca’s stubble scratches as he nuzzles against Marcus’ shoulder, pulling his pinned wrists closer to work his way down Marcus’ side, chin bumping gently down the ridges of Marcus’ ribs, and Marcus begs, “Esca, Esca, _stop_ , that tickles!” But of course Esca does not stop, not until Marcus is practically sobbing with convulsive laughter.

He never gets a chance to catch his breath, because as soon as Esca stops tickling him, he is settling himself firmly between Marcus’ legs, rutting against him and stealing frantic, biting kisses from his mouth. Marcus stares up at the hard, bright sky, his fingers sinking bruise-rough into Esca’s hips as he rolls and arches up to meet him, and Esca gasps, “Oh, _fuck,_ ” and spills slickly between their bellies, his head hanging between his shoulders so that the trailing ends of his hair tickle Marcus’ face.

Marcus surges beneath him, rolling them over and rocking against the curve of Esca’s hip, slick and messy and _fantastic_ ; and Esca is talking in British, spilling out all of the endearments and praise that Marcus can only bear to hear when they are like this, when he is all but falling apart at the seams, and Esca’s hands on him are the only thing holding any of him together. He shoots over Esca’s hip and into the grass, just before his thigh cramps and he sprawls gracelessly across Esca, who grunts in protest.

“Ow,” Marcus says, rolling onto his back in the grass to rub the cramp out of his thigh. “Can’t walk. You’ll have to carry me home.” Esca snorts, poking him in the belly. “No, really!” Marcus says, batting his hand away and trying not to laugh. “I don’t think I can even get back into the water to wash up.” Esca’s response to that is to splash furiously until Marcus drags himself to his feet and wraps his arms around Esca, dragging him back down into the water with him.

They lie side by side in the warm grass, afterwards, waiting for the sun and wind to dry them, and Marcus finds himself looking for shapes in the clouds, as he had done as a child. He sees one that looks like a squirrel, and he points it out to Esca, who laughs. They see a pig, a horse and chariot, and a rabbit--well, Esca says it looks like a rabbit--before it is time to return and tend the animals before supper.


End file.
